Blood Is Dirt by Robert Wilson Page A

about with Gerhard?’
    â€˜All
what
about with Gerhard?’ she said, some needle in her voice.
    â€˜There was something going on with Gerhard... In the meeting.’
    â€˜Why did you have to be so tough with him... about money?’ she said.
    Well, even I knew that wasn’t the reason but we were started now.
    â€˜Why
I
had to be so tough?’
    â€˜We’re an aid agency. Aid not ad. We don’t have the money for it.’
    â€˜I’d like to be a charity too but I don’t want to see Bagado’s kids starve...’
    â€˜I still have to pay the rent whatever...’
    â€˜Stick it in, Heike.’
    â€˜Look, Bruce, I have to work with Gerhard. He assesses me and reports back to Berlin. He puts pressure on me.’
    â€˜So you wanted to say to him, “This is my man.” You didn’t have him in mind as a role model?’
    â€˜Gerhard. A role model for you? You’ve got to be committed, Bruce Medway. It’s dangerous having you and your ideas out there.’
    She stepped into a skirt and left the room. I pulled on a pair of jeans, went into the kitchen and squeezed the juice out of some oranges from the fridge. Why did my eye always land on the whisky bottle? The last thing I wanted was a drink, wasn’t it? Heike poured herself a glass of juice. I wondered how these things happened to people. How did people bring themselves to the marks? What do people say these days, you know, to take things forward? Let’s get married? Get off the grass. Nobody gets married these days. Let’s have kids? Yikes. One minute I’m an arm’s-length bachelor, the next I want little versions of ourselves running around. Who’s going to believe that? Not me. There’s got to be a halfway house, for Christ’s sake. Then you find yourself saying words like ‘sharing’ and before you know it...
    â€˜What’s going on in there?’ asked Heike.
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜The usual,’ she said.
    â€˜You’re a bit sharp this morning, aren’t you?’
    â€˜I’ve a small hangover and I’m a little annoyed.’
    â€˜About the Gerhard thing?’
    â€˜No, about the you thing.’
    â€˜More juice?’
    â€˜Why should I introduce you to the role model? Why not just run off with him? You know, cut out the duffer, go straight to the real thing.’
    â€˜Maybe you wanted me to learn something from Gerhard.’
    â€˜He’s a divorced workaholic.’
    â€˜And talking about workaholics. Do you think I’m a deadbeat?’ She snorted a laugh out at that.
    â€˜You don’t want to ask that question looking like you do this morning.’
    â€˜Do you mind paying the rent?’
    â€˜I get a housing allowance. You’re broke.’
    â€˜It’s not drawing us together though, is it?’
    She laughed at that too.
    â€˜You’re like a dog wandering around a park barking up trees.’
    â€˜I’m working my way round.’
    â€˜Good luck,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go to work.’
    Â 
    Out of the kitchen window, I saw the same man I’d seen last night but on the balcony this time, staring down into the same garden, looking as if he’d got nowhere in a whole night-time.
    Bagado arrived while I had my head over the sink contemplating a puke.
    â€˜I was just on my way down to my new office,’ said Bagado.
    â€˜You’re sounding cheerful. I suppose you’ve got your own desk and phone, your own office plant, don’t have to share with whitey any more.’
    â€˜There’s something about a fresh start I’ve always liked. Even this one, which will stay fresh for as long as a calabash of fish in the sun.’
    I took another slug of the orange juice, which burned down my oesophagus. I tried to get some baguette down after it to stop it stripping off my stomach lining but it got stuck in my neck and I had to cough it back